Dancing Boy
by Spinning-In-Infinity
Summary: 00Q AU. James is a history teacher, Q is a ballet dancer. A chance meeting sparks off a story of fluff, passion, and everything in between. Who knows - it might even lead to love. Rated M for sex and language in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Dancing Boy**

_AUTHOR'S NOTE:__ I've been sitting on this fic for a while, and finally after watching Matthew Bourne's version of Swan Lake I've managed to muster enough inspiration to write it. There shall be little to no angst – just fluff, sex, and 00Q goodness. Please leave a comment if you like it!_

**Chapter One**

James had just ushered the last of his students – an persistently vivacious girl who seemed intent on stretching his last nerve by flirting outrageously with him under the pretence of questions about the lesson – out of the classroom door when he felt his phone buzz inside his back pocket. He glanced at the name on the screen and slid the answer icon across.

"_Mr. Bond?" _a cool, female voice greeted him.

"Miss Moneypenny," he responded, starting to file his various papers into his briefcase. "How may I serve you?"

Eve, his only female friend with whom he shared a purely platonic relationship, sighed heavily. _"Find me an ex-husband who won't flake out on me at the last minute."_

"An _ex-_husband?" James grinned and nudged the stack of reports into a neat pile, ready to be read and marked when he got home. "Might take a while."

_"Well, in the meantime, you're my only reserve."_

"What for?"

_"I need someone to pick Ella up from ballet."_

James masked an exasperated sigh – the sports hall was halfway across town, and it had been a very long day. But then, how many times had Eve ever asked for his help when, as a working single mother, she must have gone out of her own way many times for her daughter.

_"James?"_ Eve said, her voice hopeful.

"Sorry," he said, returning from his reverie. "Yes, of course I'll get her."

She released a long breath, the sound hissing down the line. _"Thank you."_

"No problem," James switched off the lights and electronics in the classroom, folding his old brown leather jacket and blue scarf over his arm. "What time does she finish?"

_"5:30."_

James glanced at his watch – if he set out now he'd only have to wait ten minutes until Ella's lesson ended. "Right. I'll see you later."

_"Thanks again."_

"Anything for you, sweetheart," James terminated the call and slipped the phone inside his pocket. Picking up his briefcase, he gave the room one last sweep before leaving it, locking the door behind him. The corridor was almost deserted, save for a few last stragglers and Gareth Mallory, the languages night class instructor, setting up for his evening group.

"Evening, double-oh seven," Gareth said as James passed by. Claiming to have a terrible memory for names, he referred to the school day teachers simply by their room numbers, despite having been friends with most of them for going on seven years. In kind, James referred to Gareth in a similarly formal manner – by just the initial of his surname.

"Evening, M," he said, pausing in the doorway of the language lab, glancing at the Italian phrases the other man was inscribing on the whiteboard.

"Managing to fend off those little girls?" Gareth smirked over his shoulder at James, who returned a mirthless grimace.

It was an ongoing joke between the two friends that James's female students had always deeply enamoured of him since he'd started at the school when he was twenty-three, during which time he had ranged from 'hot guy' to 'hot _older_ guy' – their own words, he hastened to remind himself. Thirteen years later, he was still maintaining his efforts to ignoring their love-struck gazes and blatant flirtation. Truthfully, when he was younger it had been amusing, almost flattering, but now it was tiresome, awkward. He was almost thirty-seven years old, and these were sixteen year old girls, fuelled by their emotions, with no concern of how inappropriate their behaviour might be.

He glanced at his watch. "Got to dash," he said. "See you Monday."

"Fight the good fight, double-oh seven!" Gareth called after him, laughter etched into each word.

As James crossed the school playing field to the faculty car park, he noticed the people arriving for that evening's Italian class – mostly women of around his age, though there were a couple of men as well. A few of the women gave him flirty looks, but he ignored them. He just wanted to pick up Ella and get home to a hot shower, some supper and perhaps a few chapters of a book before bed. A rather tedious agenda for a Friday night, he knew, but he wasn't in the mood for company.

He backed his silver Aston Martin DB5 out of the car park, pulling out onto the main road. The car had been willed to him by his father three years ago, and it was his pride and joy, kept in immaculate condition with nothing to mar its original classic beauty, with not even a stereo to update it to modern standards.

He arrived at the sports hall with five minutes to spare, and parked up some feet from the entrance. He could faintly hear the sound of piano music from an open window, and a young male voice calling instructions. He locked the car and wandered down the road to the front. He pushed open the door and joined the group of waiting parents just inside the dance studio, all watching the little girls balancing at the barre along the opposite wall.

"Alright, one last run before home-time. Now, position first. . ."

James glanced over to the instructor – a young man in his twenties with dark wavy hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a close black T-shirt and long grey sweatpants, his arms folded as he walked slowly down the line of children, checking their poses. James spotted Ella fourth from the left, her face straight with concentration, a look he recognised all too easily in her mother.

"Position second."

The girls parted their feet and extended their arms out to their sides.

"Position third. Olivia, that's fourth. Remember, feet crossed, left arm in."

Olivia corrected her position and he nodded approvingly. James had to admit he was surprised. If he'd ever given it thought, he would have envisioned a kids' ballet classes being taught by a middle aged housewife like Julie Walters in _Billy Elliot_. Certainly not a young and relatively attractive man. This guy was lucky – at least his students were too young to _realise_ he was attractive, too busy ensuring their fifth position was on point.

"And rest," the teacher grinned broadly and clapped his hands. "Well done girls, give yourselves a round of applause."

The little girls clapped happily and began running over to their respective parents. James smiled at Ella as she reached him, hugging his knees.

"Hello sweetheart," he said. "Beautiful dancing."

"Thank you, Uncle James," she smiled widely, her dark brown eyes twinkling. James felt a rush of affection for her – there was no doubt she would be a beauty like her mother.

"Ready to go?"

"Need the toilet first," she said.

"Off you go then," James gave her curly head a pat and she skipped off towards the ladies' room. While awaiting her return, he leaned against the wall, his eyes falling on the instructor, who had switched off the music and was busying himself with packing up the portable CD stereo it had been playing on. His hips and waist were very narrow, James noted, but his arms and shoulders through his shirt were toned with muscle. His facial features, although not feminine per se, possessed a certain elegance and ethereality that James couldn't say he'd come across before. He could almost say it intrigued him.

"Ready," a small voice piped up from his side, and he felt Ella tugging on his hand, half-in, half-out of her coat. James buttoned her up and took her small hand in his as they headed out of the front door. He didn't look back at the instructor, whom he could hear talking with a couple of parents about their respective daughters' progress, although there was a part of him that greatly wanted to.

While Ella chattered brightly the whole journey home, James found he was only partly listening, though he made sure to nod, smile and make affirming noises in what he hoped were the right places. Eventually, he cleared his throat and looked at her.

"What's your teacher's name, Ellie?" He felt no need to be subtle about it since, at six years old, she was hardly going to suspect any alternate motives in his questioning.

"Q," she replied.

"Q?" James said, not sure he'd heard her right.

"Mm-hmm," she nodded, her dark curls bouncing.

"What's his real name?"

"Dunno."

"Q. . ." Short for something – Quentin, maybe?

As he pulled up outside Eve's house, he saw her through the kitchen window, cutting vegetables at the sink. She glanced around the curtain and waved. James accompanied Ella to the door, where Eve greeted them with a smile, wiping her fingers on the apron tied around her slim waist. James looked at her pensively for a moment. It seemed so strange to him now that he had not once made an aim for her – he, James Bond, who had seduced more women than any other man in town. Eve was intelligent and witty and extremely attractive – it would seem odd for any man to not even entertain the idea of at least asking her out for a drink. But her ex-husband had been fool enough to seek comfort between the legs of another woman of only half Eve's calibre, and James knew she wasn't in a rush to seek the company of another man in a hurry, instead choosing to focus all her energies on being a good mother. James happily confessed that his admiration for her knew no bounds, and yet there was still something missing that prevented him from feeling anything more than mere friendship. Indeed, it seemed there was something more, now. Eve gestured for him to come inside and he followed her through to the kitchen – a cheery room with yellow walls, pale wood cupboards and many of Ella's school paintings and drawings stuck to the fridge door. Eve went to pour James a glass of wine, but he shook his head and she went back to chopping the carrots.

"I was going to give you a few more minutes to tell me yourself," she said after a moment, turning to lean against the sink and fixing James with a gaze that he knew meant he was in for an interrogation. "But you must tell me now."

"I don't know what you're talking about," James bluffed. Eve had always been able to read him like a book.

She gave a short laugh and picked up a glass of red wine from the counter-top, swirling the contents before taking a sip. "Come along, James. I haven't seen you look so distracted since that awful Annabel creature."

"She wasn't that bad," James protesting, his mind casting back to the young barmaid he'd set his fancies on some three years before.

"James, she was a psychopath," Eve said dryly, and James snorted.

"Maybe," he smiled wanly.

"So," she prompted. "Who is it this time? Just please tell me it's someone even slightly capable of holding a decent conversation."

James knew it was hopeless to try and conceal anything from her – she'd worm it out of him eventually, anyway.

"I've yet to find out," he said.

"Oh, admiring from afar this time?" she said, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "Haven't seen you do that in a while."

"No," James agreed. "Rather refreshing, really."

"Mmm," Eve nodded. "It'll be interesting to see how it pans out. From my view, anyway."

"My love-life's not a soap opera, Eve," James said.

"Maybe not," she laughed. "But it's certainly more exciting than mine."

James shrugged and straightened up. "I'd best be off," he said. "I've got twenty bloody ten-page essays to mark before Monday."

"Alright," Eve said, picking up the chopping board and piling the diced carrots into a pan of water on the oven hob. "But promise you'll let me know if there's any change."

"Sure," he said, giving her cheek a quick kiss before heading towards the door. "You can be my avid audience. Night, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, James."

As he drove home, James tried to ignore the newly developed nagging in the pit of his stomach, though it was not unfamiliar with it. He almost greeted it as an old friend, as it had always acted as a prelude to his most passionate affairs. Whether this chance encounter would lead to such a similar occurrence, however, he was uncertain.

The first had been a boy James had befriended in their last year of secondary school. Michael. He'd been a bookish type – quiet and not at all the sort most people would expect would attract a boy such as James Bond. Even in his youth, James had never been what one might call a wallflower – popular amongst the girls in his classes as well as his peers. Thinking back on it, perhaps it was Michael's indifference towards James's initial advances that had drawn him to him steadily further – so difference from the sycophantic simpering he was used to from all the others. In the end, nothing had come of it – at least not physically – but it was the opening to a side of James's heart that had been thus far closed off to him.

Of course, this did not quite end his reputation as a 'ladies man'. He never revealed that particular side of his romantic preferences to anyone, until he started university. With an entirely new scope of people, in a town where no-one had any knowledge of his background or past experiences, this seemed to James to be an open invitation to explore new pleasures to his heart's content. It shamed him a little that he could not quite remember all of the names of his various conquests – men and women alike – but the realisation that there was more than just one option was really quite liberating at the time.

It had been a good few years since his last male sexual interaction – a bar-worker called Alec Trevelyan whom he had met in similar circumstances to Annabel the Psychopath, and with a similar disastrous outcome. While he'd known from the start that Alec was a quick-tempered man – passionate, he'd romantically thought it back then – it soon became apparent that his nature leaned more towards that of a violent disposition. Enamoured as he was with the handsome man, he'd felt it wholly necessary to cut himself off after being on the receiving end of Alec's fist.

Since then, he'd found himself almost nervous to get involved with another man, especially as that most recent experience had broken not just his nose but also another part of him that he now tried to keep better protected. Tonight, it seemed, his will was trying to break through that.

He arrived back at his apartment just after six, carelessly discarding his briefcase, scarf and jacket on the sofa before heading straight to the kitchen and pouring himself a dram of whiskey, knocking it back before pouring himself another, which he took back to the lounge and sipped slowly, laying back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling. Just another evening of drink and bad television. He could have stayed longer at Eve's, he supposed, but he wasn't in the mood to be nit-picked at until he revealed the torch he now feared he was tentatively burning for a primary school ballet instructor. Even if he did have slim hips and the face of a Shakespearean prince.

Eventually, he summoned enough will to get up and fashion himself a makeshift dinner of pre-sliced cheese on toast, settling down to watch whatever drama/chat show/news broadcast his channel-hopping happened to land on, until the clock struck eleven and he hauled himself off to bed.

The next morning, at seven o'clock, he awoke with the slight threat of a hangover, but at least, it being a Saturday, he didn't have to drag himself into work. Silver linings and all that. He shuffled to the kitchen and faced the sadly bare shelves of his fridge in vain attempt to find something resembling a nutritious breakfast. Not much he could make with cheese slices, cocktail olives and a quarter-pint of milk, so he decided to head out to the coffee shop just a street over from his apartment building. He quickly washed, shaved, and pulled on a pair of clean jeans, a navy sweater and his jacket, before heading out. The streets were still fairly quiet, mostly joggers and a couple of other early risers like himself, and he certainly didn't expect there to be much of a queue in the coffee shop. There was only one person standing in line when he arrived, a few other people scattered around the circular table with chequered tablecloths, mismatched chairs and jam-jars of flowers. The place might have been rather what the youth of the internet might call 'hipster', but it was peaceful and the coffee was good. The little bell above the door rang as he entered, and he took his place in line behind the first customer, a dark-haired boy wearing a black overcoat and what looked like a home-made wool scarf that was at least two feet too long. James smirked and busied himself with the specials board until the boy in front paid for his Earl Grey to-go and turned around.

He should have expected it, really. Other people may have recognised the object of their interest immediately, no matter the angle, but to James it would have seemed too much of a coincidence. Plus it was only seven forty-five in the morning. He caught but a glimpse of pale skin, thick-rimmed glasses, and a polite smile before he was gone – the person James's mind had been brewing over for the past twelve hours. The bell above the door jingled happily and James was left just standing there not knowing what to think. Well, the way his stomach had jumped certainly proved he hadn't been imagining this new attraction. God, his face still felt red as the girl behind the counter tried to attract his attention to take his order. Eventually, he took his Americano and bacon sandwich to a table at the back of the shop and contemplated. So it would make sense that his mysterious new addition to his life must live somewhere around here, though he'd certainly never seen him around before. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was the make his acquaintance, and to at least find out what his real name was.

After six days of frequenting the coffee shop every morning before work, driving home via the sports hall, and even doing an internet search on local children's ballet groups for even the slightest hint of a name, James was starting to feel less like a romantic and more of a stalker. How could it be so bloody difficult to find someone in such a small area? He had hoped to track down at least a little more information before putting his Friday plan into action. But since he hadn't, there was nothing else for it.

The sports hall clock had just struck 5:25 as James arrived. He'd walked rather than driven, which had taken a good forty-five minutes, but his car was so recognisable that Eve would have spotted him in a second if he'd driven down. As he waited until she and Ella had pulled away in Eve's little Toyota, James rather felt like an espionage agent. He had it perfectly planned out in his head what he was going to say when he went in. 'Oh, Eve picked Ella up? She must have forgotten she asked me to. I'm James, by the way.' Couldn't go wrong.

He pushed the doors open with a burst of confidence he hoped would last, and was about to step inside the dance studio when he paused, staring through the glass panel. All the rest of the kids and parents had already gone, and the mysterious 'Q' was standing along beside the barre. Instead of unplugging and packing up the stereo, he seemed to be replacing the CD with a difference one, one long forefinger pressing play. Quickly, he removed his glasses and pulled off his T-shirt, so he was standing in just the black shorts he was wearing this week. James appreciated the spectacle – the guy looked skinny but his torso and arms were beautifully muscular. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, and James didn't think he'd ever seen anyone at this level of physical fitness. Q took his place in the centre of the room in a casual stance as the gentle sound of violins started to play from the stereo. It was a tune James thought he may have heard somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place it. Not that he cared one jot about that at that moment, as Q had started to dance.

If 'dance' was even the word he would use – 'fly' might have been more appropriate. He seemed to weigh nothing as he sprung from the floor, his body in a graceful arch, his arms outstretched like wings, his feet stretched in perfect points to land again almost soundlessly. James didn't think he'd ever seen anything more perfect in his entire life – the effortless elegance, the passion in every movement, the look of ecstasy etched into Q's expression, eyes closed, lips parted. James briefly experienced a string of deeply impure thoughts of ways he might recreate those expressions with more than just music. Ways mostly involving his tongue.

The track was only about three minutes long, but James could honestly say he'd never had another three minutes like them. Q danced in a way that made him almost wish he could dance that way as well, if only for an excuse to touch him in the most intimate _pas de deux_ possible. He wondered how it must feel – all that talent just flowing through his body, turning him into something more ethereal than just a person, more graceful than a swan.

That was it – Swan Lake. That was the music he thought he recognised. As it came to an end, Q struck one final position, before easing back into a normal stance. The CD skipped to the next track just before he switched it off, picking up his shirt and pulling it back over his head, placing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. That's when he turned and saw James. Now or never.

James pushed the door open, his eyes fixed on Q, as though he never wanted to look at anything else again.

"Can I help you?" Q asked. James had forgotten how sweet his voice sounded – light and mellow, boyish.

"Uhh. . ." all James's famous smooth-talking seemed to have failed him in that moment. Start again. "I came to collect Ella."

Q raised an eyebrow. "The class is over," he said.

"Yeah," James looked around the empty room. "Guess her mum forgot."

Q nodded and began packing away his things, not seeming that interested in James's company. James had to confess he wasn't entirely used to this – and had a flash-back of desperately trying to win Michael's attention the corner of the school Library. He'd never conquered that challenge – was this a second chance to do so?

"You're remarkable," he said, adopting what he knew to be his most attractive half-smile.

Q turned. "Excuse me?"

"I said you're a remarkable dancer," James continued. "Swan Lake, right?"

"Yes," Q said. "Op. 20."

"Can't say I've seen anything like it," James said, moving a little closer.

"Can't say I'd peg you for a ballet enthusiast," Q replied.

"You'd be right, but I've been developing an interest lately."

Q narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be gauging whether or not James was having him on. Then he opened up his messenger bag and pulled out a small paper flyer displaying the words 'A Night of Tchaikovsky: Music and Dance'.

"If you're so interested," Q said. "Would I see you there?"

James looked up and smiled. "I think you'll find you might."

Q tugged his bag further up his shoulder and nudged open the door with his hip. At the last moment, he turned and asked, "What's your name?"

"Bond," James said, too quickly. Why had he said his surname first? "James Bond," he corrected himself.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bond," Q said, before he left, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It was almost seven o'clock by the time Q finally reach got home, hands weighed down with shopping bags and his head still buzzing with the events of the evening. He nudged the light switch with his elbow and set the groceries down on the kitchen counter. As he began to pack everything away in their respective cupboards and shelves, his mind remained resolutely fixed on that man – James Bond.

Q would have been lying if he said he hasn't noticed him that first evening, when he'd come to pick up little Ella from the class. But really, who _wouldn't_ notice a guy like that? Tall, blond, those startling blue eyes, and that body. Q felt a small shiver of lust ride through his body as he thought of it. The guy was undoubtedly swimming in offers from probably men _and_ women to fill the position of bed-partner, so Q was wracking his brain for a reason why he seemed to be interested in him. It was surprising enough to him that he was that way inclined – something about the guy just screamed 'ladies man'. Q wouldn't really say he had a 'gay-dar', as some people put it, but most of the time there were even small telltale signals.

And he'd called Q remarkable.

His face flushed as he remembered it – the sincerity in his face and in his voice when he'd said it. He'd watched him dance and called it remarkable. Truthfully, he probably wasn't an experienced ballet-watcher, and so probably didn't have any true talent to compare it to, but Q was happy not to quibble about that, at least for the moment. An involuntary smile spread across his face and he hugged himself, fingers gripping into the wool of his jumper. He'd tried to act so cool and offhand, like he always did in company – a habit he'd adopted in his school days to deflect bullies – but inside, he was glowing.

He fixed himself a simple dinner of pasta and sauce, setting his place at the small square table at the far end of the lounge. Even though he lived alone – apart from his two cats, Mabel and Polly, currently snoozing on his bedspread – he'd still held onto the standards his parents had expected him to live by under their roof. Dinner was eaten at the table – no exceptions. He chewed slowly, his mind completely elsewhere, wondering what was going to happen next. He'd asked James to the ballet night tomorrow evening, though would the guy really be interested enough to sacrifice a Saturday night to amateur dance routines? He and Harry from the old dance group crowd were only performing as a favour to the director, who was the daughter of their old teacher back in ballet school. They were to be the grand finale, but it wouldn't be quite so grand if James walked out before Q had even set foot on stage. It all weighed on how serious James was in his pursuit. Q supposed if he was just looking for an easy lay, he was better off not knowing him, but since this was his first flirtation since before the accident. . . he had a right to be hopeful, didn't he?

His left hand drifted down to touch his knee, as it always did when he thought back to the day it had shattered beneath him in the crash – thus destroying his career as a professional ballet dancer. It had been eight years ago – he'd been on top of the world. Dancing the Swan, the Prince in Cinderella, even a brief time as Mistoffelees in 'Cats'. Then it had all come tumbling down with him.

Tonight was the first time he'd danced the _pas de deux_ from Swan Lake since that day. It was a little different without a partner, but if he closed his eyes he could still envision what it had felt like – the pure intimacy, the almost spiritual closeness that dance could invoke in a duet like that. It was almost poetic. Alone, it was like only half of a song – incomplete, unfinished.

And James had called it remarkable. Q took a moment to imagine what it might be like to dance with him – to feel that broad-shouldered body against him, to be lifted by those strong arms, his hands on Q's waist, his breath on the back of his neck.

It really _had_ been a long time, Q mused. All this pent-up sexual frustration was _not_ good for his concentration.

The next day, Q wandered down to the coffee shop for an Earl Grey to-go. It wasn't his usual haunt, but he'd seen James there last Saturday, so he wondered if he'd see him there again this morning. When he reached the little cafe, it was fairly crowded – there were even a couple of tall, handsome blonds, but not the one was looking for. He tried not to feel disappointed as he paid for his tea and honey-oat muffin. If James was serious about him, he'd see him at the recital tonight (and even if he was just an easy lay, he'd probably see him there anyway). Would that be such a bad thing? Q wondered as he wandered back down the road. It'd been eight years, after all. He was twenty-seven, he should have been at the height of sexual prime. At least that's what everyone said when he dared to mention he'd not had a boyfriend since his days with the Royal Ballet. After the accident, he'd sort of shut himself off from the others – it was too painful to watch them continue to do what he couldn't now. A one-off show like the recital tonight was different. It was performing night after night that would put strain on his knee, the doctor said.

He was excited about the recital, especially as he knew Daniel, his ex, wouldn't be there, so he could relax. He and Harry, who was going to be playing the part of the Prince in their Swan Lake sequence, had been pretty good friends back in the day, so it should be a good evening. Even more so if James decided to turn up.

Q met up with Harry just after lunch. His hair was longer, and he was more tan than Q remembered, but other than that it was just like old times. They practiced the sequence at the sports hall for a good couple of hours, and returned to Q's for a light supper before heading to the theatre.

While not a complete sell-out, the theatre was fairly full, mostly by the parents of those performing. There were seven other acts before Q and Harry's finale – four amateur ballet performances by groups of girls from the secondary school, with a string quartet to accompany them, and a couple of solo instrumental acts. While everyone was getting seated, Q hung out casually (he hoped) in the wings, under the pretence of making sure everything was being set up properly, but really taking any chance to scan the crowd. Subtle, he knew.

When it was time for the lights to go down, Q returned despondently to his dressing room. Or rather, _the_ dressing room, since he was sharing it with Harry, all the girls crammed into the other room down the corridor. Maybe James was just running late, or maybe Q was clutching at straws. Did it really matter so much? Some guy chatted him up and he was making a big deal out of it – that was all. He couldn't be the only guy James had called 'remarkable'.

When the last group left the stage, Q did a final couple of stretches and stepped aside to let Harry pass. Back with the Royal Ballet, there would have been a dance with the backing swans before the Prince's dance with the lead swan, but since there was only the two of them, Q stepped onto the stage after only a couple of minutes. This was all so familiar – the way the music moved within him, governing his moves, sending his emotions soaring with the highest notes. He allowed himself to imagine that Harry's hands on him were James's, that there was real passion in his embrace, as they entwined around each other in their erotic dance. He could've been back on a huge house stage again, with an entire ensemble of dancers, rather than a run-down fifty-seat theatre in some small corner of London.

After the lights came up and the bows had been done, Q hastily changed out of the white leggings and tank-top he'd been wearing for the performance. All he wanted now was to get back home, make a cup of Earl Grey, and try to quash the sadly overwhelming feeling of disappointment James's absence had created. He waved Harry off with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, then began to gather up his things.

Three knocks on the door.

Q's stomach leapt, though he forced himself to maintain calm as he slowly turned to face his new guest.

James smiled, almost smugly, like he knew his presence had surprised Q. "Evening," he said.

Q swallowed, then adopted his face into its usual careless expression. "Evening, Mr. Bond," he replied. He wasn't sure why he chose such a formal address, but it seemed to intrigue James.

The older man stepped through the door and nudged it closed behind him. Q's heart beat a little faster. James looked really good in a simple button-down black shirt and jeans – understated but sexy as hell. Q felt underdressed in his wool jumper and cords.

"Great show," James said. "Though would have been better as a solo act."

"Thank you," Q replied, still trying to keep his composure. He didn't want James knowing the extent of the effect he was having on him. He'd never labelled himself as easy, but the way James's shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the muscles in his arms just visible through the sleeves, was rapidly peppering holes in his resolve.

"So, how about a drink?" James asked. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Q's face. It was still a little disconcerting for Q that the handsome man seemed to like what he saw there a great deal. Q had never been especially self-conscious of his looks until he started secondary school, after which the other kids seemed to find many reasons why he should be – long nose, bushy eyebrows, wider-than-average mouth, etc. Evidently, these things didn't seem to bother James, which of course just made Q want to impress him more. God, when did he become so needy?

Q glanced at his watch. "Not sure I'm really appropriately dressed for anywhere open this late," he said.

James smirked, casting his gaze over Q's clothes.

"Is that a no?"

"Not necessarily," Q said. "Long as you don't mind your date looking like a junior librarian."

Oh shit, did he just say 'date'? Was that okay? James _had_ asked him out for a drink – wasn't that code for a date?

"For all you know," James said, plucking Q's overcoat from the peg by the door and holding it out to him, "I could like the bookish type."

"Well, here's hoping," Q said, trying for a coy smile, which seemed to work, as James returned an equally flirtatious look.

"Come on, dancing boy," he opened the door and stepped out into the empty backstage corridor. Hearing his old school nickname made Q pause for a second, but coming from James it sounded completely different – like a compliment rather than a tease. So he pulled on his coat, shouldered his bag, and closed the door behind him.

The bar that James took him to was just the sort Q had expected – sleek, understated, with expensive whiskey behind the bar. Unlike the club across the street spewing techno music into the night, the bar was fairly quiet ten-thirty on a Saturday night, for which Q was grateful. He was unsure how he would have continued his cool front if he'd had to yell everything.

They sat down in a leather-seated booth, and within seconds a waitress appeared at their table.

"Evening, sir," she smiled at James. "The usual?"

"Thank you," James nodded. "And. . .?" he gave Q a quizzical look.

"Oh, just a Diet Coke, please," Q mentally cursed his low alcohol tolerance level. In moments like this, he wished he could just order a glass of wine or anything more adult, but then he would remember the nights he'd spent vomiting into a bush or dustbin, post-consumption.

"Ice and lemon?"

Q nodded.

"Be with you in a minute," she made a note on her pad and hurried off back to the bar.

"You come here often?" Q asked.

James laughed. "And here was me thinking _I'd_ be the first to spout a corny pick-up line," he smiled at Q apologetically. "Sorry, I'm not laughing at you."

"No?" Q was a little embarrassed. His dating skills were a little rusty, it seemed.

"No," James confirmed. The waitress came back, placing the two glasses on the table. Q was more than a little surprised to see that James's 'usual' was a martini – he'd pegged him for more of a scotch-on-the-rocks kind of guy. James took a sip from his glass and leaned back against the booth.

"So," he said. "First things first – what's your name?"

"Just Q is fine," Q said.

"Seriously?" James leaned forward and smiled curiously. "First date and you're not even going to tell me your name?"

"I just told you."

"No, 'Q' is not a name. A _code_ name, maybe. Is this the part where you say 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you'?"

"Okay, but if I tell you, could you please just go on thinking of me as 'Q'?"

"If you insist."

Q took a breath. He didn't think James would laugh at him (if he really _was_ trying to get into his pants, it wouldn't do him any good). "It's Quill."

To his relief, James looked more intrigued than amused. "Where did that come from?"

Q shrugged. "My parents were eccentric. It's actually short for Quillan."

"Clearly not short enough."

Q smiled. "It's Irish. They later found out Quillan is supposed to be pronounced with a K. Too late by then, though."

"I like it," James said. "Quill. It suits you."

"What, a bit odd?"

"Not odd," James reached across the table and took hold of Q's fingers. Q caught his breath. "More like out of the ordinary. Like no-one I've ever met."

Q swallowed. "_Now_ who's spouting pick up lines?"

James chuckled. "It's been a while, I guess."

"Right," Q snorted.

"What?"

Q looked pointedly at James's muscular body.

"Alright, alright," James conceded. "I should say it's been a while since I dated a guy."

"Is it so different?"

"In some ways," James took another sip of his drink. "But I have a certain type when it comes to men."

"What's that?"

"Unattainable," James smiled wryly. "Or someone I know is no good for me."

"And which am I?" Q couldn't decide which he'd rather be.

"Well, considering how much of a distraction you've been for me the past week, you could be the second," James said. "But when I saw you dancing last night, you were definitely the first."

Q took a moment of great pleasure in the thought that he had been considered unattainable by a guy who was attracting the eye of almost every woman who passed their table. Even now, with his glasses and knitted sweater, he was looking at Q like a gift he was desperate to unwrap. It was a new feeling, and Q would have been a bare-faced liar if he said it wasn't a thrill. Part of him wanted to continue this new image of aloof and hard-to-get, but another part wanted James to tear his clothes off with his teeth. But what if he let James have his way and found himself kicked to the curb once the fun was over? But somehow, or perhaps he just wanted to, he didn't believe James would do that. He was too open, too upfront.

"So how do you want to play this?" James asked, mirroring the question Q had been posing to himself.

"I'm considering it," he replied.

"Well," James drained the last drops out of his glass. "The way I see it, we can either stretch this out to another date, then another, like normal people. Or, we can go back to your place."

"Someone's cocky."

"Oh, I expect you to shoot that second option down in flames," James grinned good-naturedly. God, he was handsome. "I just thought I'd put it out there. I know you're far too classy for that."

_Don't be so sure_, Q thought. _It's been a long time_.

"Or," he said, heart in hand, "we could do this."

And he leaned across the bar and kissed James full on the mouth.

It only took a second for James to respond to Q's lips on his – and he did so with surprising restrain, considering he'd wanted to do this since the moment he walked into the theatre dressing-room. Q's mouth was cool from the ice in his drink, and his hair smelled like almond shampoo. His long fingers were tracing James's jawline, and James moved his own hand to cradle the back of Q's head, the other resting on his slim waist. He felt a deep warmth spread through his body from the pit of his stomach, that familiar pleasure he only felt with a gorgeous man in his arms.

When they pulled apart, Q's expression was rather nervous, but his bright eyes were charged with an exhilarated lust. His lips were flushed, the back of his hair mussed, and he looked like a god. A skinny, bespectacled god. All James's natural instincts were screaming at him to take this guy home and debauch him in every way imaginable, but something was also holding him back (his morals, maybe?). It had been a long time since he'd felt this good – he wanted to stretch it out for a little longer.

"Good?" Q asked, a little breathless.

"Good," James agreed, and went for him again. He was fully aware of the women staring at them with varying levels of surprise and disappointment as they passed the table, but not one atom of him cared. Q had his arms around his neck and nothing else really mattered at that moment.

Suddenly, the overhead music changed from some generic easy-listening track to _Let's Get It On_. James pulled back and looked over to the bar, catching sight of their waitress – Jasmine – with her fingers on the stereo, and a guilty smirk on her face.

"Come on," he stifled a laugh, giving Q another quick kiss before sliding out of the booth. "Let's go."

"Where?" Q asked.

"Anywhere you want," James replied.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside Q's front door. Q's fingers fumbled with a keys a little bit, which James found adorable. The door opened up onto a short flight of steps leading up to another door with the number thirty-six tacked to it. The flat behind it was small but cosy, like James had expected. The main room was a combination of lounge and dining area, with a small kitchenette next to two doors which James guessed led to the bathroom and bedroom. The furniture all looked second-hand, but neat and well-maintained. A slightly sunken sofa was draped with a multi-coloured quilt and two tabby cats, and the television was small and certainly not high-definition. James thought of his own flat – minimalist, high-tech, and nowhere near as homey. He paused to examine a large bookcase filled with well-thumbed novels and a few newer-looking textbooks, most which were about ballet and natural history.

"Nice place," he said.

"It's all I could afford after I left the ballet," Q said. "Most of the furniture came from my grandparents."

"I like it," James said sincerely. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the front door. The heated lust from the bar had faded into anticipation of what might happen next. He felt his eyes drawn to the door he guessed to be the bedroom. As if reading his thoughts, Q stepped towards him and slowly wrapped his arms around James's waist, his lips moving to nuzzle the nape of his neck. James placed his hands on Q's back, one slowly reaching down to cup him through the seat of his trousers. Q's breath hitched and he began to kiss him more enthusiastically, capturing his lips again and gently catching James's lower lip between his teeth. James made a low noise in the back of his throat and quickly hoisted Q up, his hands supporting each side of his buttocks. Q wrapped his legs around James's waist and felt that tell-tale hardness pressing against him through the older man's jeans.

Q unhooked his legs and slipped his index finger over the collar of James's shirt. He pulled and James followed, through the left door and into Q's bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_**Author's Note:**__ I saw a Tumblr post recently about how it annoyed the blogger when people give Q a name starting with the letter Q, since it's a job title and not an initial chosen from their birth name. I just wanted to point out that I am completely aware of this, but since this is an AU fic, it would make more sense for Q to have *something* to do with his actual name! In the other in-universe fic I'm writing (James and Q on a "special" mission to Paris – hopefully uploaded soon), he has a completely different name. Just so y'all know I'm not an idiot! _

_Next chapter, James takes Q out for a romantic dinner and Eve has an unexpected admirer._

There was little furniture in Q's room – the double bed was pushed against one wall, with a wardrobe at its foot, and a small table serving as a desk with a laptop resting on it.

Q's fingers were already working on the buttons of James's shirt – the anticipation to see what James's body looked like without cloth to mask it was making him hasty. James grinned appreciatively and allowed Q to push the shirt from his shoulders, enjoying the look of marvel on the younger man's face as he stared at James's chest and arms. James had to admit he was proud of the work that had gone into maintaining the physique he had – many early-morning gym sessions and protein shakes had helped him achieve the goal he'd set for himself.

In return, James was eager to touch the body he'd seen displayed before him when he'd watched Q dance. He could feel the lean muscle beneath the woollen jumper as he gripped Q's waist, pulling him close to kiss him again. Q felt his core temperature rise considerably as James pushed his jumper up his body and over his head, their naked torsos pressed flush against each other. He felt a rush of relief that he'd kept up his dancer's frame even after leaving the ballet – he was small and skinny by nature, but many years of training had allowed him the body of a true _danseur_.

In a sudden movement, James bent down and literally swept Q off his feet – causing Q to give a rather undignified shriek – cradling him bridal fashion in his arms. He weighed next to nothing, and James cast a thought to how easy it would have been for his dance partners to lift him.

"I imagine you're used to men holding you in their arms?" he asked.

Q smiled shyly. "A little more elegantly, perhaps," he said. Slowly, he leaned backwards in James's arms, draping his arms over his head, almost to the floor. James concentrated on keeping his balance, while admiring the tautness of Q's stomach as he stretched.

"The Swan is the only part I've played with a male duet," Q said, curling back into position against James's chest. "And even that's only the Matthew Bourne version, where all the swans are male."

"Shame," James said. He walked over to the bed and laid Q down upon the patchwork cover. Q lifted his hips as James undid the zip of his cords and slid them down his pale legs. Aside from the powerful thigh muscles, they were smooth and lovely as a woman's. James guessed Q had shaved them for the performance tonight. He noticed something else too – a long thin scar that traced almost completely around Q's left knee, like the joint of a puppet's leg. He traced a finger along the mark, and Q shivered.

"Sorry," James said.

"It's alright," Q said.

James didn't enquire further, but slowly ran his fingers along the waistband of Q's boxer shorts. Q's heart began to drum as he felt the cool air on his erection as James freed it from beneath the thin material. Was James going to. . .? Oh, _God_! Q leaned his head back and moaned as James's hot mouth enveloped the sensitive flesh, his tongue working magic on the underside of his length.

Despite it having been such a long time, James remembered all the tricks he'd learned with past male lovers, and he used all of them on Q, delighting in the noises and expressions he was making with every turn. He didn't want to end it this way, though, and smirked at the whine of protest Q made when he pulled away. James rose to his feet and, not taking his eyes of Q's, undid his jeans and slid them off with his boxers. He could see Q's chest rise and fall rapidly with lust and a little nervousness, his hair tousled, his lips flushed. James knelt astride the beautiful young man and laid a trail of kisses down his collarbone as he felt Q's fingers wrap around the hardened length between his legs.

"How do you want to do this?" he said. He knew from experience that face-to-face hurt more, but I desperately wanted to see Q's face when he entered him, when he moved, when he came.

"Just like this," Q said breathlessly. "Have you got—?"

James reached down and pulled the foil wrapper sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. Presumption, he knew, but he liked to prepare for any eventuality. As incredible as it would feel to come inside such a tight body, he didn't want Q to suffer any discomfort tomorrow. As he rolled the condom onto himself, Q reached for a bottle from inside his bedside cabinet. James obligingly slicked himself up and then reached down to prepare Q, who jumped a little as some of the cold gel slipped inside. He always felt a little nervous at this point, just before his partner went inside – as good as it felt in the end, there was always some pain in the beginning. James knew this too, and was determined to inflict as little of it on his lover as he could. He used guided himself into place with one hand, the other pressing into the pillow next to Q's head. He began to push slowly inside, his head rushing a little, and feeling another surge of lust as Q bit his lower lip at the intrusion.

"Ahh. . ." he gasped. "Keep going."

After James had pushed right in to the hilt, he lifted Q's legs and rested the calves on his shoulders, lifting his hips for better access. He pulled out almost to the head and gradually pushed back in, loving how Q clenched his fists and pressed his lips tightly together. The feeling was utterly incredible – so tight and warm, the friction as he withdrew and trust again sending his brain into a spiral of pleasure. He reached down and pulled Q from the mattress so he was sitting on James's lap, crying out as James thrust into him again and again, nipping James's shoulder with his teeth then soothing the marks with kisses.

James could feel himself growing steadily closer to the finish, a white heat churning at the base of his cock as he slammed it into Q, with short, sharp jerks, clutching Q's body to him, his breath quickening. He gave a guttural moan, his face screwed up in intense desire, and Q cried out when he felt James's cock pulsating inside him as he came. James wrapped his fingers around Q's own length as he rode out his orgasm, pumping the young dancer until he too reached his climax, seed filling James's palm and splashing his stomach.

They fell back against the pillows in a breathless, slightly sticky, heap, Q passing James a tissue with which to clean the come from his hand. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke – just absorbed what they'd done and how amazing it had been. Q's stomach was full of butterflies – very fluffy, happy butterflies – and in that exact moment he didn't care if this was only a one night stand. Okay, he _did_ care, but it was the best sex he'd ever had so he couldn't bring himself to think about anything further than five minutes from now. He just wanted to lie in this moment forever.

James raised his cleaner hand and toyed with a strand of Q's curly hair. Q turned his head and smiled at his new lover, admiring at such close quarters how incredibly blue James's eyes were – like pools of icy water.

"I think I'm staining your sheets," he gestured at the pale mess decorating his abdomen.

Q didn't honestly care, but the thought of a warm shower was quite appealing, so he slowly rolled off the bed and got unsteadily to his feet. The sight of James lying naked in his bed, his legs tangled in the old patchwork quilt, made him want James to fuck him again.

"Joining me?" he asked, pulling off his glasses and setting them on the desk.

"Just admiring the view," James smirked, rising to his feet with a lot more surety than Q had. He carefully knotted and disposed of the condom and followed Q into the adjacent room. The bathroom was tiny, as was the shower, so his hopes of a rinse-and-repeat under the spray were quashed. _Oh well_, he thought, _something to do at my place instead_. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and watched Q step into the tiny cubicle.

"They never show this bit in the films," Q observed. "The sticky aftermath."

"They should," James grinned, watching the rivulets of water run down Q's back. He wanted to grab hold of him again, but there was only just enough room for one person in the tiny shower, so any such attempt would probably end in disaster. Q stepped out and wrapped a towel from the wall-rack around his waist, making room for James. The water was only lukewarm, but James didn't complain. He looked at Q sitting in his vacated spot, his hands clasped demurely in his lap, his eyes fixed on James.

"How much can you see without your glasses?" James asked, soaping himself up.

"A little," Q replied. "I usually wear contacts for dates but you were a little impromptu this evening."

"I think we could say that about the _whole_ evening," James said. "Been a while since I did it on the first date."

Q winced a little at this comment.

"I didn't mean you're a slut, or anything," James hastily backtracked. "I just mean it's been a while since I liked someone enough to _want_ to sleep with them so early. Usually have to check they're not psychos first."

"What makes you sure I'm not?" Q asked, pacified.

James grinned. "I'm taking a chance with you," he said.

After James changed back into his shirt and jeans, leaving his feet bare and hair rumpled, he found Q making tea in the little kitchenette. He was now dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and drawstring pants. He looked rumbled and delicious. James wound his arms around his waist, his chin fitting into the crook of his shoulder, feeling Q smiling against his cheek.

"Milk?" Q asked.

James shook his head. He was actually more a coffee drinker, but he accepted the tea gratefully all the same – mind-blowing sex was thirsty work. Q moved over to the sofa and shooed the cats from where they were still sleeping on the blanket (apparently the sounds of their master making passionate love had not disturbed them), running a lint-roller over the spots they'd vacated. He invited James to join him, but the minute they'd sat down, the cats simply jumped straight back up – one onto Q's lap and the other wedging itself between James's leg and the sofa arm, tucking its paws beneath its chest.

"It's too much of a cliché, I know," Q said, stroking the cat on his lap, which purred contentedly. "But they're nice to come home to. This is Polly, and the furry cushion next to you is Mabel. You have any?"

James should his head. "I wouldn't mind a dog – we had one when I was growing up – but my landlord doesn't allow pets."

Q leaned his head against James's shoulder, and James put his arm around Q's.

"So, million dollar question," James said after a moment. "How'd you fancy doing this again sometime? With _or_ without the sex."

Q paused. "With or without would be. . . lovely," he said, glancing up into the handsome face. "If you really want to." Another pause. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mm?"

"You and Miss Moneypenny – Ella's mum."

"Eve," James said, knowing what question was fast approaching.

"Yeah. Well, have you. . . I mean, you two. . . have you ever been. . .?"

James shook his head. "She's my best friend," he said. "Much as I love her, I don't think I'm cut out for father duty yet. Picking Ella up from ballet once in a while is one thing, but I think she needs someone who could really get involved. She thinks so too."

Q snuggled a little closer. "Sorry."

James stroked his arm with thumb. "Should _I _be worried about that guy you were dancing with?"

"Harry. No."

"No history there?"

"None. I _was_ dating one of the other guys, but that finished."

There was a definite tone of sadness in Q's voice, so James didn't press the matter. He sensed that particular breakup hadn't been entirely clean, and he could identify only too well. Besides, they weren't quite at the soul-bearing part of this yet.

They talked for about an hour about various things – music, movies, and other interests. While they didn't have everything in common (James loved a good action flick while Q preferred more artistic films), they both shared a love for jazz music. It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time James could finally bring himself to leave – he still had half those essays he'd not bothered to mark that afternoon. He was feeling so high, he was almost tempted to give the rest of them an 'A' and be done with it. He located his socks and shoes and pulled on his jacket, Q watching him with annoyed longing.

"Wish it was Saturday," he said.

"Christ, me too," James cupped Q's face in his hands and kissed him. Q reciprocated passionately, like he was trying to ensure James wouldn't forget about him. _Not much chance of that_, James thought as he gazed into Q's fathomless blue-green eyes. He got the feeling that Q was more nervous than he was letting on about if he was going to see James again.

"Do you want to take my number?" James asked. A little surprised, Q handed over his phone and watched as James input his number.

"I'm not as well-versed in calling rules as I used to be," Q said dryly. "Is it two days I have to wait?"

"I believe it's about fourteen hours," James smiled. "My lunch break is between one and two-fifteen."

He wasn't sure if it was wise to let Q know he was just as anxious to meet again as Q probably was. Just to gaze shamelessly at that pretty face if not for a replay of the best sex he'd had in months. Wouldn't do to give everything away in the first five minutes – emotionally, that is, since there weren't that many physical surprises left.

"And this won't put me through to some sort of sex line?" Q said.

"Not unless I decided to change jobs between now and then," James laughed, ruffling Q's hair.

"Thank you," Q said abruptly.

"What for?"

Q hesitated, looking a little awkward. "For the drink, I guess," he said eventually.

James planted a chaste kiss on his forehead and then one on his mouth. He could already predict he was going to be thinking about those lips a lot tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Q," he said.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bond." He'd said those exact words just over twenty-four hours ago, yet their connotation was completely different now.


End file.
